Bo's Café (8 page)

“Let me back up a little,” she says. “I was Andy’s wife’s best friend—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “
Was
Andy’s wife’s best friend?”

“My wife died, Steven,” Andy answers as he returns to the table. He turns his chair backward and sits, his arms folded across
its top. “She contracted a quick-moving form of cancer. She fought courageously, but the cancer won.”

I blink once. Twice. “I’m sorry, Andy. How long ago did this happen?”

“It was about six years ago.” He stops. His mouth starts moving like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks
over at Cynthia.

I interrupt my own question. “We don’t have to talk about this right now.”

Andy continues as if I haven’t spoken. “When Laura died, I was a mess. I drifted away from almost everyone. People reached
out, but I just wanted to be alone. Somehow I managed the bills and continued to work. But I was walking around like I was
wearing several heavy winter coats. Each day my goal was just to make it back home and to bed.

“One night, about four months after her death, I was alone in that big house where all our life had happened. I was just overcome
with grief. Blackness. I heard a knock at the door. It was Cynthia and her husband, Keith. They had takeout from a favorite
Mexican place where the four of us used to go.”

Andy’s words lock up again. Tears come into his eyes. After a few moments he sighs and is able to speak again.

“We all sat down, and I started pouring out how depressed I was and how much I missed Laura.”

“Then
I
broke down,” Cynthia adds. “Oh, honey, we were basket cases, the three of us.”

Andy looks at me. “Steven, I didn’t plan on bringing this up.”

“No, go on. Please,” I say. This is the first info I’m getting on Andy apart from what I found on the Internet.

“I told Cyn and Keith that Laura had been my strength. I was the successful one out in the world, but now I was completely
undone without her.

“Cynthia began walking me through some painfully good stuff that night. In the middle of wrestling with her own grief, she
took the risk to tell me some hard things about myself that I’d avoided for a long time.”

“Wait,” I say. “
Cynthia
is the friend you were talking about who helped you?”

“Yeah,” he says, wiping his eyes. “She and Keith. But mostly Cyn.”

Before I can stop my words I say, “I didn’t think you were talking about a…”

“A woman?” the two of them say in unison, then laugh out loud.

I’m embarrassed, but I start laughing too.

“Oh, yes! A woman!” Cynthia says. She smiles at me—a smile that tells me she can see right through me and is fully prepared
to enjoy me anyway.

At that moment two men appear and sprawl out at our table as though they’ve been there for days and just got up to use the
restroom. One is a dark Hispanic man. Strikingly handsome, he has a big, beaming smile. He has on an old sport coat over a
T-shirt tucked into jeans. He wears canvas shoes with no socks. Most can’t get away with this look, but this guy doesn’t really
seem to care, which kind of makes it work. The other man is sturdy and bald with a forehead that could stop a truck. A linebacker’s
forehead. His clothes have the rumpled look of a refrigerator salesman who does his own deliveries. The Hispanic guy is bantering
with almost everyone—part English, part Spanish slang. I have yet to make out much of what he’s saying by the time they’ve
settled in at our table. It’s all motion, jargon, and fun.

The handsome one extends a hand. “My man! You must be Steven. I am Carlos Badillo, at your service. And the Cro-Magnon–looking
gentleman to my right is Hank.”

I’m half-tempted to look down to see if I’m wearing a name tag again. Carlos leans in, points at Hank, and under his breath
warns, “Careful with him, man. He just got out from a stint in the slammer for a number of violent crimes against the elderly.”

Hank grunts back without smiling. “I was innocent on most of them charges, I swear.”

Carlos has thick jet-black hair, combed straight back. He looks to be thirty-something. Hank, easily ten years older than
Carlos, appears fully capable of what his friend has accused him of. His piercing eyes and heftiness match his apparent intensity.
He looks like a cage fighter on a lunch break.

“So talk,” Hank commands, gesturing to me.

Carlos nods in agreement. “I’m with him, man. Spill.”

They both sit there, staring at me, fiddling with packets of soup crackers as though they can’t go on with their routine unless
I give some kind of response.

Andy rescues me. “Steven, these are two of my close friends. We’ve been meeting here on Thursdays, at this table, for a long
time now.”

Like a kid, Carlos jabs me in the shoulder. “Hey, man, has he fed you the ‘bumping into furniture’ speech yet? It’s one of
our favorites.”

Hank joins in. “Yeah, I love that one. Show him, Carlos. Show him. You do it best.”

Sheepishly, Carlos stands. “You think so?”

Both Cynthia and Hank nod in agreement.

He shakes out his hands like he’s about to perform a platform dive. “All right, this is my impersonation of Andy doing the
‘bumping into furniture’ speech.” He clears his throat. “ ‘It’s like you’re stumbling around in a dark room, bumping into
furniture.’ ” Carlos leans over to me. “Then he’ll wait a few seconds, just to add drama, before he asks you—”

Carlos and Hank say in unison, “So how am I doing?”

With that, Carlos and Hank start slapping each other’s hands, laughing and wheezing. Several people on the deck seem to be
enjoying the bit as well.

He
was
just guessing that night,
I think, unsure whether it makes me feel better or worse.

Almost involuntarily, I ask, “Has he ever used the ‘pound of coffee’ thing on any of you?”

Carlos moans. “No way, man! You’re kidding me, right? He’s used that on you? Andy, I’m hurt, dude! I thought that was only
for me. What, man? You stealing this stuff off the Internet?”

“I
told
you I was,” Andy protests.

More laughter rises from the deck.

The next several minutes are all aimed at Andy’s expense. He doesn’t even try to stop the barrage, laughing along at the ribbing.
The waiters and busboys are joining in too. The deck is definitely out of control.

Sitting here amid the laughter, I realize I’m watching something pretty uncommon. It’s obvious that everyone on this deck
deeply respects Andy. Their humor seems more of a way of honoring him. It’s very different from the kind of mocking humor
at work. There’s no hard, cynical edge. Nothing competitive. They aren’t really ridiculing him at all. Quite the opposite,
actually.

Not long after I down the last bites of a truly great shrimp cocktail, Andy, Cynthia, and Hank excuse themselves, promising
to be back in a few minutes. I am left at the table with Carlos. He appears in no hurry to go anywhere.

“So, where do you think they’ve gone off to?” I ask.

“Hank, he sells drugs and munitions out of the back of his car,” Carlos says, not looking up from his food. “I’ve tried to
steer Andy right, but he can’t resist. It’s a deadly combination, man.”

I laugh by myself. “So, Carlos, how long have you known Andy?”

“A few years now. Maybe five. We met down at the marina. I was checking out a place to keep this little boat I have. The place
was way too expensive for this Mexican.”

“He owns a boat?”

“No. He works there.”

“Andy works at a dock?”

“Yeah. Just down the street, on Tahiti Way. Why?”

“Nothing, really. I guess I just thought that, well…”

He leans back. “That my man would have a more impressive career?”

“Well, yeah, maybe.”

“Well, suit, you’ve stumbled into a long story. You in a hurry?”

“I was about a half hour ago,” I say. “It’s starting to look like today’s going to be a wash at work. And Andy’s driving,
so until he gets back… you think you could stop calling me ‘suit’?”

He chuckles. “I don’t think so, but I’ll try.”

“Fair enough.”

“You see the people around this deck?” he asks, leaning back in his chair to point at various people. “Most of them know each
other. You got your doctors and lawyers. There’s a sheet metal guy, a city council member, a couple of plumbers. Tech nerds
chillin’ with hospital workers. Shop owners, students from Loyola. See the woman in the purple top? She was on the Olympic
volleyball team at Seoul. Now she runs a physical training center in Newport Beach.” He turns back to the table. “See that?
We’ve got, like, celebrities here, man. And then there’s Hank. You wouldn’t know it, but he’s an environmental detective for
the state attorney general.” He laughs hard. “That single fact alone should keep you up at night.”

“I think it will from now on,” I say.

“So most of us have, like, at least a couple things in common: One, we can’t live without Bo’s cooking. Two, most of us believe
in God, or at least aren’t hating that the others do. It’s all word of mouth. And your new friend Andy, he’s kind of at the
center of it. The whole shindig never probably would’ve happened without him. He’s had a pretty stinkin’ huge impact on a
lot of lives.”

“I’m starting to catch on to that.”

Carlos slides his chair closer. “I think he figures most people don’t have someone safe enough when things go south. So the
dude kind of watches for people who might be discovering they need something like that.”

“Kind of like me?” I ask.

Carlos ignores my question. “Everyone needs it. Everyone, man. Most just don’t see it. He’s always watching for it. May not
seem like it. The cat sometimes seems like he’s listening to music in some other town. He doesn’t always seem…”

I try to help. “Focused?”

“Yeah, focused. Sometimes he seems to be answering questions nobody’s asking. Other times he’s not answering what you
did
ask. Right? That old dude drives me nuts sometimes. But don’t let the clothes and the slouching fool you. The old dude is
sharp. He’s listening. I’ve figured out he’s waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“Yeah, he’s waiting to hear if the person is ready to risk letting someone inside, past the show, past the dance.”

“So the people on this deck—they’re the ones who have let him in?”

“Yeah, sort of, but not all. I do it now too—listening. Cynthia does it. Even Hank. A bunch of us. We’re all listening.”

“You doing that with me right now, Carlos? Are you listening to see if I’m ready?”

He laughs so hard he leans back and hits his knee on the table. “Oh, no, man! You kidding me? Carlos can’t be listening to
everyone. Carlos loves to hear himself talk. I’ll let Andy do the listening with you. Till they get back, you’re stuck with
me eating and talking.
Comprende?
”

“Yeah, Carlos, I’m good with that,” I say. “So what does he do when he meets with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what does he talk about when you’re together?”

“Hmmm.” Carlos stares past me. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t think about it. We eat. We always seem to eat.”

He motions to a busboy walking by. “Jorge, when you get time,
mi bebida con sucar
.
Gracias.
”

Carlos turns back to me. “Here’s something. Maybe it’ll help answer your question. Andy was the first dude I ever met who
had more confidence in the grace of God than in the power of the crap I was dragging around.”

I shake my head. “What?”

Carlos laughs. “Oh, yeah. Get your head around that one, amigo. It’ll set you free. Steven, most people want to fix stuff
in others so they don’t keep embarrassing them no more. You know what I mean?” he says, smiling and nudging me. “It’s true,
man. It’s like if they can’t just get away from you, they’re afraid of you stinking up the place. And that won’t look so good
for them.”

I reply, almost to myself, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that before.”

“You need to get out more. See, man, we want others to think we’ve got it all together, like we don’t need a handout. So we
stack the deck, we bluff, we cover up the stuff we don’t like about ourselves. We make ourselves a nice little mask. And then
we hide behind it. It’s who we wish we could be, who we wish others thought we were. What a joke, huh?” Carlos shakes his
head. “One of my masks was my position. I wouldn’t have known then to say that. But I know it now.”

“Your position?”

“I was the pastor of a big church in Covina.” He sits up and puffs out his chest. “
El jefe. El camaron!
Lots of people looking up to Carlos, wanting to make me somebody bigger than life, like some kind of pope or something. Make
me out to be this magic dude of faith… all squeaky clean and together and shiny. It’s like you know better, but you start
thinking to yourself,
Carlos is the man!
Yeeesh. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so stinking stupid.”

“You were a pastor?” I ask.

“Still am,” he says. “Different church. Back then I had the badge, but I probably caused more damage than good. Or, well,
you know, God had a plan, and in that part of the plan, Carlos Badillo was a pastor in Covina. Right?” He shrugs his shoulders
and takes a big bite from the plate of fish he’s working on.

“I met Andy before I started pastoring this church in Hermosa Beach. Go figure, huh? Me in Hermosa Beach. George Lopez hanging
out with surfer dudes. I didn’t have none of the lingo or nothing, man. Growing up, my people didn’t show up at Hermosa Beach
’less they got lost.”

He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Anyway, Andy was the first person able to handle Carlos with all his junk. See, the dude
was convinced that God in Carlos was enough. You gotta be kidding me, right? Really, man, that one thing, that someone saw
me that way—it knocked me over. You know? For maybe the first time, like, ever, it gave me something strong to hold on to.
Like there might be a way to face the lies tearing my insides apart.”

He takes a quick drink from his water glass and continues, “And they were tearing me apart. Bad. Before then I didn’t know
how to just do each day without hiding or acting all big. Nobody knew me, not really. I’m smiling all the time like I’m in
the know, like I’m in on the joke, you know? But the whole time Carlos is sitting on the outside wondering when people will
see through him.”